“It was nearly too late,” Dee snapped back before composing himself. “You took too long, and we nearly lost our opportunity.”
Tesla clenched his jaw, then strode into the room to stand next to the other man. Tesla was tall and fit, and his features were handsome, although he often wore a cold, clinical expression, which ensured that no one looked at him for long, or twice. “We nearly lost Crowley in acquiring it as it was,” he said, his voice clipped and precise. “The Caretaker’s brother returned to the cottage as he was leaving, and that would have undone us all.”
Dee scowled. “He wasn’t supposed to be near the house at all!” he snapped. “It was too great a risk.”
“It was a necessary one,” Tesla replied soothingly. No point in irritating Dee for nothing. “He couldn’t risk transporting from the Caretakers’ fortress itself—we still don’t even know if it exists in real space or not. Better to have risked exposure than to lose them both. It was difficult enough just to get across the bridge.”
Dee eyed the flask. “Yes—yes, you’re correct. I had just assumed that more precautions would be taken.”
Tesla shrugged. “The cat was watching out for any interlopers and could have dealt with them accordingly. And Lovecraft and I were waiting here on our side should he need any intervention in Oxford. Really, it went about as well as it could go. And now,” he said, pointing at the flask, “we have it.”
“Indeed,” said Dee. He handed the flask to the scientist and noticed a marked increase in the motion of the smoke inside. “You know what to do. Is the other one ready?”
“Quite nearly,” Tesla replied as he turned on his heel and began to walk out of the room. “I’ll give you a further report later today.”
“And our Archimago project?” Dee added. “How goes that, Nikola?”
The scientist stopped, and paused for a moment before answering. “It goes . . . according to plan,” he said, measuring his words carefully. “Complete isolation, as you’d instructed. He will have grown to adulthood without having the slightest idea of who he really is.”
Dee turned to look at his colleague. “You still disapprove, I take it?”
Tesla ran his hand through his hair and looked at the floor. “Blake believes—”
“Blake is not the Chronographer!” Dee shouted. “He is an adept, but he is not irreplaceable. No one is, except for the boy. The girl whom they believe is the Imago was raised to believe she had a great destiny, and that makes her unpredictable. So the only way to control the Archimago was to make sure he believed he had no destiny at all.”
Tesla looked up. “If he is what we believe, then he won’t believe that for long, once we bring him back. And once he realizes what he can do . . .”
“He will already be sworn to serve our ends,” said Dee. “And if for some reason he chooses not to, we’ll just cast him back into the future. Irreplaceable does not mean necessary,” he added, looking at the flask in the scientist’s fingers. “The girl is Shadowed, remember. And if we can’t use him, then perhaps we’ll still be able to turn her. Either way,” he finished, eyes glittering, “we win.”
Tesla seemed to want to say something further, but instead pocketed the flask and walked out, shutting the door harder than necessary.
“Excellent,” the Chronographer murmured to himself when he was alone once more. “All things pass, in time. And soon enough, they will. And then . . . at last . . . I will truly be the Master of the World.”
Almost as if responding to his words, the long shadows in the room rose from the floor and swirled about until the entire athenaeum was cloaked in darkness.
The returning Caretakers were greeted on the East Lawn of Tamerlane House by Fred, who rushed to embrace Uncas; Laura Glue, who was still brandishing her own katana, and upset that she hadn’t been allowed to go with the others to the Kilns; and Edmund and Rose.
“I’m one of the best fighters at Tamerlane,” Laura Glue pouted. “I should have been with you, even if you didn’t really need me.”
“There will be a much more important mission at hand for you, little Valkyrie,” Verne chided gently as they walked to the house, “and against much more dangerous adversaries than old Aristophanes.”
“She ought to go with Rose and Edmund, then,” Byron offered, trying to lighten the mood. “Not much point to saving the world if you can’t save your woman, too, eh, Bert?”
“Shut up, George,” said Hawthorne.
“What?” said Byron. “I was being sincere! How can I ever participate if you try to shut me up whenever I say anything at all?”
“You can’t,” said Hawthorne. “And just so you know, I’m not agreeing with you here.”
“Well,” Byron grumbled, “I’m just saying I think Bert’s reason for going is better than everyone else’s.”
“Mmm, thank you, George,” said Bert. “But it really is more important to repair the Keep of Time. Anything else must be secondary to that goal—however much I would want it to happen.”
“Whoever else goes with Rose and Edmund,” said Verne, “you’ll be among them. You’ve earned that, Bert.”
“If push came to shove, I suppose you could always have just tried taking the machine in the basement yourself, Jules,” Bert replied, not entirely with conviction. “After all, we know it worked at least once.”
Verne started, then shifted in his chair, as if the suggestion was an uncomfortable one. “I . . . appreciate that, Bert,” he said with a bit too much joviality, “but the machine wouldn’t work for me. Not again, at any rate.”
Bert looked at his associate, puzzled. “You’ve taken it out? And come safely back? I wasn’t aware of that.”
Verne waved off the remark. “Yes, yes. It went . . . well. But it’s not important now. Our concern is how to get you to the future and back safely, so we can finally go about this business of rebuilding the Keep of Time.”
“I meant to ask,” Jack said to Verne, “what’s this about goats in the Himalayas?”
“It’s a lake in Mongolia, actually,” Verne said. “Not many people know about it. I keep the herd in the ruins of an old castle there.”
Jack suppressed a grin. “I, ah, never took you for a goatherd, Master Verne.”
Verne drew himself up and frowned. “I don’t spend all my, ah, time traipsing around in history,” he huffed. “I have to have a way to vent my stresses. Everyone does, or they turn into Byron.”
“Hey, now,” said Byron.
“Interesting,” said Charles. “What do you call your herd?”
“The Post-Jurassic Lower Mongolian Capra Hircus Horde,” Verne said with such obvious pride that Rose feared he might actually pop a vest button or two. “I’m raising two of them in particular to be show goats,” he went on. “Elly Mae and Coraline. Fine, fine stock. Took first and third in their classes at the Navajo County Fair last year.”
“Erm, Navajo County Fair?” Charles asked.
“Arizona,” Verne answered. “No one knows livestock better than the Navajo, except for perhaps the Lower Mongolians. They appreciate the exotic lineage of my goats in ways the European cultures cannot.”
It was John’s turn to suppress a grin. “And what lineage would that be?”
Verne’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, unsure if he was about to be made the fool, but he explained anyway. “My goats,” he said, resuming his prideful tone, “are descended from the stock of Genghis Khan himself, and were brought into the West by Marco Polo. Some mingled with the lesser stock of the northern Europeans, but Elly Mae’s line bred true, and Coraline’s almost as much.”
“Hmm,” said Charles. “I take it that’s where the third-place award came from?”
“The judge cheated,” Verne replied. “He put a foot out of place when I wasn’t looking.”
Jack looked at John and shrugged. “Jules Verne showing goats descended from the herds of Genghis Khan in a county fair in an Indian nation in America,” he said. “Now I think I have heard everyth
ing.”
“I would have thought you would raise goats from the Archipelago,” said Charles, “if you really wanted to make a showing, that is.”
“Considered it,” said Verne, “but for one thing, they’re harder to breed, and for another, they kept insisting on driving the car themselves.”
“And,” Byron added, “there is no Archipelago anymore. It’s all Shadow.”
Hawthorne cuffed Byron across the back of his head. “You see?” he huffed. “This is why we don’t take you anywhere.”
More quickly than any of them had expected, including himself, Edmund finished the chronal map. It was almost three feet across, mostly to allow for the symbols that ringed its border, which were necessary to accurately pinpoint the date to which they would travel.
In celebration, the Elder Caretakers called for a dinner in honor of the mission. John and Jack exchanged silent glances of frustration with Twain, knowing that every second that passed was another one lost to Bert, but nothing could be done. To the Caretakers Emeriti, who were largely confined to Tamerlane House, ceremony was everything. In the dining hall, Alexandre Dumas and the Feast Beasts quickly put together what Dumas referred to as “a light dinner,” which nevertheless consisted of enough food to have stocked the Kilns for a year.
“So,” said Twain when they had all eaten their fill, “who’s up for an adventure?”
Burton let out a loud belch. “What you’re really asking is, ‘Who gets to go?’”
The Caretakers and their associates all looked up from their plates. It was not an academic question—the group selected to go on the mission had to be carefully chosen, if for no other reason than if they ran into trouble, they would not be able to draw on the Caretakers’ resources for help. Those chosen would be on their own.
“Rose and Edmund, as per usual,” said Verne. “And of course, Bert will go,” he added, clapping his colleague on the shoulder.
“Th’ three Scowlers should go,” said Fred. “For something this important, they should make the trip, if anyone.”
Verne hesitated and looked at the other Caretakers. Until this moment, none of them had considered whether—or if—they wanted to actually make this trip. But now, faced with the possibility, they realized that all of them wanted to, badly.
“I’m sorry,” Verne said before any of them could volunteer, “but of the three of you, only Charles should be allowed to go.”
John and Jack were immediately crestfallen—but they also understood right away what Verne meant. They were still living Caretakers, in the Prime Time of their actual life spans—but Charles was a tulpa, like Verne, Kipling, and a few others. He could withstand stresses and injuries that they could not—but more importantly, if he were lost, it would not affect the natural timeline.
“But Scowler Verne,” Fred started to protest, clutching his paws in sympathetic anguish. “Scowler John an’ Scowler Jack . . .”
“No, no, it’s all right,” John said, chuckling softly. He bowed his head for a moment, then looked up at his friends. His eyes were shining with tears. “I suppose in a way, I was looking forward to one last, great adventure, just like we had when all this began. That’s how we all met, remember? When Bert came to the club at Baker Street?”
“Impossible to forget it, old friend,” Charles said, giving in to his impulses and hugging his friend. “I’m, ah, sorry you’re still alive and can’t come along.”
“I’ve had my adventures,” Jack said, putting his arms around both Edmund and Rose. “It’s time for a younger generation to earn their teeth.”
“To, uh, what?” asked Edmund.
“It’s a rite of passage,” Jack replied, “for every crewman aboard a Dragonship.”
“Do you remember, Jack?” Bert asked. “Do you remember the day you earned your dragon’s tooth from Aven?”
Involuntarily Jack put a hand to his chest and felt the small bump where the tooth hung around his neck underneath his shirt. “I remember,” he said, smiling wistfully. “I’ve never taken it off.”
During their first adventure together, when a younger Jack was infatuated with the older captain of the Indigo Dragon, he had performed many feats of bravery, and more than once had saved the ship and its crew. And so during a quieter moment, she had presented him with a dragon’s tooth—the mark that he had earned his place among the crew. It was more than decorative—it was one of the original dragon’s teeth sown by Jason of the Argo, in his quest for the Golden Fleece, and thus it had several magical properties that came in handy onboard a ship. It could be turned into a stave for fighting, or a grappling hook. But mostly it was a symbol to other sailors—a statement that his place among them had been earned, not given.
Later, after having made some terrible mistakes, Jack had tried to give it back, but Aven refused. “No,” she had told him firmly, “it’s not an honor you lose. You earned this. But you’re learning some hard lessons—and that’s part of the deal too.” So he kept it. And in that moment at Tamerlane House, he was glad he had. It was one of the connections he had had with Aven that neither of his friends had been given, and for that reason, he treasured the memories it brought.
“Yes,” Bert said as he looked at Jack and wiped away the tears that were welling in his eyes at the memory of his daughter. “I can see that you do.”
None of the Caretakers Emeriti could go, because of the limitations of the portraits—they could survive for one week outside the bounds of Tamerlane House, and no more. This was a guideline that had been underscored by the terrible loss of John’s mentor, Professor Sigurdsson.
For the same reasons that John and Jack couldn’t go, a petulant Laura Glue was also denied the chance to join the others, as was Fred. Burton, however, insisted on going, and stated it flatly, as if the matter was not open to debate.
“Technically speaking,” he said, “I still represent what’s left of the official ICS, and I’m not really a Caretaker. So I have a right to go. Also,” he added, “like our friend Charles, I’m a tulpa, so there will be less risk.”
“We don’t have other tulpas who can go?” Jack asked Verne. “Like Kipling? Or maybe . . .” He stopped and looked around at the gathering. “Where are Houdini and Conan Doyle, anyway, Jules?”
“Er, ah,” Verne sputtered, caught off guard by the question. “Kipling is on other business, and Houdini and Conan Doyle are, ah . . .”
“Tell them,” said Dickens.
“They’re tending my goats,” Verne admitted sheepishly. “I’ve taken them on as apprentice shepherds.”
“Good Lord,” Burton said, slapping his forehead. “I weep for this and all future generations.”
The discussion continued as the Caretakers left the banquet hall and repaired to the lawn outside, where Shakespeare had constructed a simple stone platform to mark the point where the company of travelers would cross into the future.
“It’s cavorite,” he explained to the others. “Edmund and I realized it would give him and Rose a stronger point to link to for the return trip.”
“Brilliant,” said Jack. “Marlowe would never have come close to anything this clever.”
Shakespeare tried not to beam with pleasure at the compliment, but failed miserably. “My thanks, Jack.”
Fred was quite put out at not being allowed to accompany his friends on their journey into the future, particularly since Charles was going.
“It’s my job,” the little badger protested. “I’m the fourth Caretaker, after you, an’ I should be going along to watch your back.”
“I understand,” Charles said with sincere sympathy, “but it’s precisely because of that that I need you to stay here at Tamerlane House. John and Jack are going to need you here—no one else is as skilled a researcher as you are, Fred. That’s part of your job too.”
The little badger tried not to pout, but wasn’t very successful. “Th’ bird is going, though.”
“Archie is the best reconnaissance agent we have,” Bert said, winking
at the clockwork owl perched on Rose’s shoulder. “Taking him along is a safety precaution.”
“Also,” Burton interjected, “there’s very little danger of the Morlocks accidentally eating the bird.”
“Well, all right,” Fred said with obvious reluctance. “But at least take along my copy of the Little Whatsit. I won’t need it here, since I’ll have th’ whole library at my disposal. But you never know when it might just save your lives with some tidbit or another you didn’t know you needed to know until you needed to know it.”
Charles took the book and scratched Fred’s head. “Of course, my friend. Thank you.” He stored the book in his duffel alongside the Imaginarium Geographica and a few of the Histories that Verne and Bert had selected.
“Humph,” Byron snorted. “He scratches the badger and the animal preens, but I try to do it as a friendly gesture, and the little beast bites me.”
“Badgers are excellent judges of character,” said Twain.
“Oh—right,” said Byron.
Charles shouldered the duffel bag and moved to stand alongside Bert, Rose, Burton, and Edmund. Archie hopped to Charles’s shoulder and beamed at Fred, as Rose tucked her sword, Caliburn, under one arm.
“We have our company then,” said Bert, “and all of you have my gratitude.”
“Close your eyes and think of Weena,” Rose whispered, taking Bert by the hand. “You’re going to see her, very soon.”
Edmund and Rose held the map in front of them and concentrated on it. Instantly it began to glow, then expand, and in seconds was large enough to cross through. It was dark on the other side, but the sun was setting behind Tamerlane House as well, so that meant little.
“Farewell, my friends,” said Verne, “and safe return.”
The Chronic Argonauts, as Archie had dubbed them, in honor of one of Bert’s stories, stepped through the portal and into darkness.
. . . a hunched, shabby-looking man was muttering
to himself and cradling a rock . . .
The Dragons of Winter Page 6